There are a least two Malchuses
in heaven. Malchus according to Luke
has at least two ears but no name,
nor is there a name of the disciple
who struck him.

The Lord’s last indulgence of healing
before the big one, a revised
error in zealous cutting. Beloved
ear of some servant, a darling not
to be killed.

The gospel of John is the apocalypse
of Malchus. And there the cut
is the indulgence. Beloved John
saw Simon Peter feel it gorgeous
to require blood.

And that servant is a quaint fountain,
named and dripping behind the apostle
in the foreground and the master
looking at him with pity talking
about his cup.

The way that that Christ loves
that Malchus is by not drinking
his blood. Not here a healer, he has
no healer’s fee nor savor of the ripe
lust of compassion.

What he is telling the rock of
his church and the severed ear
in the dust is that there is a whole
other drink of blood available
to be tasted.

Malchus with a name only half hears
his own red-lettered caption. He goes on
wasting red thread in a blackened text,
illuminating the word picture
of the Christ.

The other one is happy not hearing
the lesson at all. His memory scrubbed,
one of many little ones, he bids a life
and wins. Whoever he is, he is
redundant with life.

Listen to a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by shraga kopstein on Unsplash